


Coffee, Tea, and an Empty Mug In Between

by tonybanner27



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bisexual Brian Zeller, Canon Bisexual Character, Denial of Feelings, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Abuse, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Character Death, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Prison, Pre-Canon, Preller, Slow Burn, graphic depictions of ptsd
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:33:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27373510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tonybanner27/pseuds/tonybanner27
Summary: Brian Zeller did not fit into the suit he wore to his hearings fifteen years ago; the seams of the jacket seemed determined to garrote his armpits, his socks were exposed halfway up his ankle, and his belt was on the loosest notch possible to hold his faded dress shirt down. The ill-fitted, starchy fabric clamped around his shoulders every time the bus jostled or turned, and it seems that this child's suit and cardboard box were the only real things occupying Zeller's seat. He certainly didn't feel real; he felt caught between himself at nineteen years old, a scared loud mouth shoved past the chainlink fences of prison; and himself at... Thirty-four. He was thirty four years old now.Thirty-four years old fit Brian Zeller about as well as the too small suit from fifteen years ago; it pulled at him and threatened to break the seams keeping him together at frayed edges. Thirty-four years old was almost as uncomfortable as his shoes, almost as tight as the pressure of tears against his Adam's Apple. Almost; but he hadn't made it this far and really he never considered it until thirty-four years old was scratched into his appeal paperwork and stamped "Approved"; effectively marooning him in the real world.
Relationships: Alana Bloom/Margot Verger, Bella Crawford/Jack Crawford, Jimmy Price/Brian Zeller, Preller - Relationship, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, hannigram
Comments: 5
Kudos: 11





	1. Halfway House Between Before and Nowhere

**Author's Note:**

> This is a short, prelude chapter for the coming fic!

Brian Zeller did not fit into the suit he wore to his hearings fifteen years ago; the seams of the jacket seemed determined to garrote his armpits, his socks were exposed halfway up his ankle, and his belt was on the loosest notch possible to hold his faded dress shirt down. The ill-fitted, starchy fabric clamped around his shoulders every time the bus jostled or turned, and it seems that this child's suit and cardboard box were the only real things occupying Zeller's seat. He certainly didn't feel real; he felt caught between himself at nineteen years old, a scared loud mouth shoved past the chainlink fences of prison; and himself at... Thirty-four. He was thirty four years old now. 

Thirty-four years old fit Brian Zeller about as well as the too small suit from fifteen years ago; it pulled at him and threatened to break the seams keeping him together at frayed edges. Thirty-four years old was almost as uncomfortable as his shoes, almost as tight as the pressure of tears against his Adam's Apple. Almost; but he hadn't made it this far and really he never considered it until thirty-four years old was scratched into his appeal paperwork and stamped "Approved"; effectively marooning him in the real world. 

The ship sailing him stopped with the hiss of breaks and a hard thud through the undercarriage of the bus, and Brian Zeller looked up with a nausea that couldn't be blamed on seasickness. He stood up, shuffling down the aisle and avoiding the empty stares of the other four occupants as he departed the prison bus. He felt them watching him as the bus hissed and growled again; the motion rattling through Zeller as it drove down the street and he was entirely alone. 

Zeller looked up from staring at the patch of missing bristles from his toothbrush, wincing at how bright the sun beat down on the house in front of him. It looked... Like a house that shouldn't be lived in by ex-cons. Beige walls and a brick wall around the front of it; with starkly out of place conifer trees along the outer sidewalk in front of it. There was a small garden gnome by the concrete rectangle that constituted a patio, a faded green hose tosses on the lawn and leaking into the dead brown grass, and a large grey van parked in the double-car driveway. Zeller watched his step for pinecones as he walked up the cracked sidewalk, swallowing his nerves and squaring his shoulders as he knocked on the door. 

A tired, square jawed woman opened the door and tried for a smile, looking at him up and down before looking at his face. Zeller's eyes widened slightly as his eyes snapped up from from the collar of her grey jacket, a nervous edge in his head. He hadn't seen a woman, let alone a pretty woman, in fifteen years and he had no idea where he was allowed to look. 

"Don't stare..." Zeller thought, blinking as she spoke to him.

"You must be my new tenant, Zeller right? Come on in, boys are finishing up lunch dishes but we'll find you something to eat." She said, waving him inside and closing the door behind him. He shuffled inside and kept quiet, the loud arguing from the kitchen pushing against him as he entered the house with his box pulled a little tighter to his chest. 

"Ignore them, it's probably about the cat again. Follow me." The woman said. "I'm Alana Bloom, I am in charge here."

"I'm Brian. Zeller." He fumbled with his own name, the 'Z' felt harsh in his ears and he hated the way it felt to say his name. He was made of numbers; a 30 year sentence, 4 charges of armed robbery, 15 years served, prisoner 025038. How could they expect him to be a person with a name after so many numbers had been the only notable things about him for almost half his life? How could he expect himself to have an identity, to exist like a person does?

Alana Bloom led him down the barely classifiable, squat hallway to the very end where one of five doors was ajar. She gestured with a flat hand to it. 

"This will be your room while you're here. You're sharing it with a man named Abel Gideon. He's good with the new guys. Your bed is by the door." Alana said shortly, crossing her arms and moving to let Zeller enter the small room.

Two beds crammed into opposite corners with a large wardrobe between them, desks for each bed, and another dresser under the window. There was a lamp in the corner closest to the door and Zeller almost bumped into it, glancing down at the inverted lampshade and wincing as he caught the force of the bulb. He turned to Bloom and shifted his grip on his box. 

"Um, thank you. When do I know where I'm working?" He asked slowly, his ears turning red as Bloom raised her eyebrows. 

"That's not normally what people ask me first." She paused, looking at Zeller with something in her eyes that made him uneasy. 

"You'll get your work assignment tomorrow morning; the van leaves at 6:00 am and if you're not ready we don't wait for you, you'll just have to take the bus or walk. Tonight we're doing group therapy where you'll introduce yourself, and you'll get your list of chores starting Monday." Bloom rattled off the information in a tone next to cold but with enough patience it wasn't quite icy. Zeller nodded and mumbled a 'thank you', setting his box down on the bed near the door. 

As Brian Zeller stared at the bent edge of his cardboard box, he felt a scream land somewhere under his chin and perch there. 


	2. Tea and Leaves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quantico, Virginia is a quaint town for comfortable people and FBI employees; and it is a town with too many goddamn trees. These trees happen to drop a lot of leaves; particularly as the seasons began to shed from late spring to early summer; and the FBI was obviously too busy to be constantly sweeping these leaves off their grounds. Decades of budget cuts and bright ideas to save a few extra dollars later; an ex-con could be easily found slinging trash bags and dust pans outside the FBI Headquarters, Academy, or even Laboratory without so much as a glance cast in their direction.

Brian Zeller turned around sharply as the wind pulled his shoulders, growling in frustration as the wind blew apart half of his carefully swept pile of leaves and debris. The sidewalk surrounding the FBI Academy seemed to attract more leaves than Zeller believed to be natural; and as he stomped back over to his ruined piles he shot the square, formidable buildings a quick glare. 

His glare met the eyes of a small gaggle of trainees; mostly women with a blousy, blond man standing among them carrying stacks of papers and a mug precariously balanced on top. Zeller's face blanched as the trainee he unknowingly glared at, a woman with long dark hair and a leather jacket, cocked her eyebrow at him. Zeller looked down and felt his cold ears turn red under his beanie, focusing too much on the wrinkled black leaf under his broom as one of the other women snorted and shook her head. 

They all continued walking up the wide steps to the Academy and Zeller swept his leaves back into order, his knuckles white around the broom handle with an embarrassment in his chest he hadn't felt since middle school. 

If it wasn't the kids surrounding him for appraisal as the newest student; it was getting called elephant for his ears, nose, any manner of poorly thought up insults they had for him. There had always been something about him teachers didn't like; not in middle school and not in high school before he dropped out. He never figured out what it was; just that they would never believe he finished his homework or reading as quickly as he did; and that he was widely regarded as Other in the student's eyes. 

Another yank of the wind pulled Zeller's mind out of his awkward school years and back into the trees surrounding the FBI Academy. He had to finish the entire front grounds before 3:00 pm, which at this rate with the wind and sheer volume of fucking leaves seemed next to impossible. The wide swaths of grass and innumerable pathways crisscrossing over each other became a maze of problems for Brian Zeller; and the FBI Academy building continued to loom over his shoulders like a stern teacher hoping to sign a detention slip before lunch. 

\--------------- 

Zeller got an ego boost from tossing six bags of green waste into the dumpsters a full three minutes before he was required to. Which was probably pathetic; but damned if he didn't feel a little less useless and adrift for having done his job ahead of schedule. Finishing that much earlier also meant he could take his lunch early; and he knew there was a coffee cart somewhere adjacent to the FBI Laboratory. He finished putting away the broom and trash cart, rinsing his hands and wringing them as he closed the door of the storage closet.

Closet maybe wasn't the right word; the room itself had two full shelves of cleaning supplies and was probably the size of Zeller's room at the halfway house. Zeller had been surprised when his supervisor showed him the supplies; all the different chemicals and tools made his head spin and he was relieved when he was put on sweeping duty for most of his first few weeks. A broom and dustpan were not, thankfully, one of the scary new things about the world that left Zeller with a pit in his stomach and his fingertips numb. 

But it had been almost a month since Zeller started working there; and despite still not being let inside any of the buildings he was good at his job. He was thorough, sometimes to a fault, and he did extra things before anyone asked that made the next day or night shifts easier and faster. Not that anyone would ask; but there was a small delight about restocking trash bags or refilling chemical cleaners that took so much pressure off the other janitors it was worth hauling out the boxes. 

In the month since Zeller has been released from prison, he had found that his idea of the world was much different from the world's idea of him; and that difference was nowhere more felt than in his understanding of technology. Technology had changed so much in the past 15 years thst Zeller almost thought he might have been killed in the laundry room and sent to some bizzare second dimension. Phones were handheld and tiny now; with light-up screens that worked by just touching them. You could do twenty-thousand different things on the new phones; and there weren't any minutes for calling and texting you had to pay for. Computers were also smaller; and some of them were touchscreens too, which make Zeller's skin crawl if he was being honest. He hated that there weren't physical buttons, and how damn bright every single screen was no matter what computer or phone or damn tablet he was forced to use. 

Zeller was completely engrossed in thought as he walked from the backmost, almost hidden parking lots of the FBI's cluster of buildings; so engrossed in thought that he almost ran into the person waiting by the coffee cart he was getting lunch from. Zeller stumbled to a halt and put his hand out, his palm jabbing at the arm of the man he bumped into. 

"Sorry, I'm sorry." Zeller took a step back, stumbling over his words as haphazardly as his feet as he looked up from the ground at whoever he just bumped. The blond man from that morning turned sharply and stared at him, narrowing his eyes and glancing at Zeller's hand on his arm. Zeller stuffed his hands into his pockets, feeling his ears go red as his mouth fell open. 

"I-" 

"You're the new janitor, right?" The blond interrupted. Zeller's cheeks reddened next, and he closed his mouth and just nodded.

"Well, not completely new. I've been here a month so, I know where things are." Zeller amended. "Everything outside, they won't let me in yet. I guess mopping is a very important job if you need a badge for it." 

The man in front of him pursed his lips and turned back to the line, stepping forward without another glance in Zeller's direction. Zeller closed his mouth again and resisted the urge to stuff his fist in his mouth to prevent more stupid words coming out of it. Cool, now he knows your every thought on mopping. 

"You're a student at the Academy right?" Zeller blurted out, desperate to change the subject even if was beyond clear this guy did not want to talk to him at all. The man barely tilted his head to acknowledge him, and Zeller almost thought he wouldn't respond after a moment of quiet. 

"I'm a Special Agent; consulting here from the Smithsonian. But technically, yes, I have to take a few rudimentary courses to be cleared for field work." Was the blond's cool reply. Zeller looked up with open interest, his eyes going wide. 

"The Smithsonian? That's so cool, I've always wanted to go. What did you do there?" Zeller asked, his mind instantly racing with the childish image of huge dinosaur skeletons and walls covered in information floor to ceiling. He'd always wanted to see the dinosaur exhibit; and find out how they documented everything and put them back together. Forensic stuff like that had always picked at some deep part of Zeller's brain; like working backwards from the bits and pieces was a puzzle he wanted to solve for the final pictures. And if the pictures were dinosaurs? Nothing could be cooler. 

"I'm a doctor of forensics, but I mostly worked in their entomology department. Insects are fascinating creatures." The man, the slight emphasis on the word "fascinating" betraying a small amount of delight at the world of bugs. Zeller nodded and tilted his head. 

"So, you studied dead bugs?" He asked. The man turned with a narrowed eye and Zeller felt a pang of discomfort in his stomach, wondering if that was so stupidly obvious he shouldn't have even asked. 

"Yes; more or less. I also catalogued them, figured out what they were, when and where they came from, and maintained an accurate record of certain species lifespans." Was the second, coolly delivered answer. Zeller nodded again, furrowing his eyebrows as he processed. He honestly hadn't thought of bugs for that long or that hard before.

"Doctor Price, you're needed in the lab. They found another body." An FBI student said; and as Zeller looked up he realized they were at the end of the line and the blond, Doctor Price, was in the middle of deciding his order. He was staring resolutely at the small, scribbled menu, waving a hand at the sweaty student's message. 

"I'll be along then." His voice remained at the same level, cold plateau he'd taken when speaking to Zeller. The student looked confused, his wide eyes glancing at Zeller in a 'is he normally like this?' sort of frown. Zeller shrugged and the student hesitantly resumed his jog, leaving Price and Zeller by the coffee cart with the wind biting into them as coldly as Price's voice. 

"A chamomile tea to go, don't put anything in it." Price ordered. The coffee cart employee nodded and poured his tea into a coffee cup, snapping the lid on and handing it to him with a cardboard cozy and two packets of sugar. Zeller opened his mouth to say something to Doctor Price as he stepped up in his spot, but he just turned on his heel and walked away without a glance in Zeller's direction. Zeller closed his mouth, frowning and wondering what it was he had wanted to say so badly. He turned to the coffee cart with his eyes on the edge of the counter. 

"Uh, just whatever coffee please. Thanks." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry y'all, Price will stop being mean to Z eventually. (eventually)
> 
> Edit: if any of you can correctly identify the Buddy Cole reference in this chapter I will give you a virtual cookie.


	3. Fox in the Chicken Coop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian Zeller was not a cat person; he did not like how they moved, how they looked at him, and any cat in his vicinity seemed to share the same opinion of him. His roommate, Abel Gideon, was a cat person to the point he could have been mistaken for one himself; yet he was the only person in their halfway house of twelve people who seemed to tolerate Zeller's presence. The house’s cat, however, did not share that same tolerance. 
> 
> [Warnings: implied / referenced sexual abuse, brief ptsd flashback, violence.]

"If you don't start taking things for yourself, these other boys are going to eat you up." Gideon's voice appeared near Zeller's left elbow and he fought down a shudder, turning with a resolute frown. Gideon was standing at a pleasant, relaxed attention with his hands folded behind his back, his shirt neatly tucked into his pants, and shoes clean despite having been assigned to the weeding. He probably bribed someone else to do it; Gideon could get virtually any contraband past the lousy surveillance around the house. Living in the same room as the house's smuggler was a constant, anxiety ridden nightmare for Zeller, and every night when he thought Gideon was asleep he would check every nook and cranny on his side of the room before even touching his bed. The last thing he needed was a broken rule and sentence back to jail. 

"I thought you were the only here who ate people. Allegedly." Zeller groused back, scrubbing the coffee mug in his hands stubbornly. He liked getting dish duty, because it usually meant he was left alone in kitchen while everyone else busied themselves with half-assing chores, using the cell phone hidden in the side yard's fuse box, or jerking off while their room mates worked night shifts. Zeller was just lucky enough to get stuck with Abel Gideon; who seemed to make it his personal goal to see how far his placid demeanor could push Zeller further to the brink of actual, diagnosable insanity. Zeller glanced at Gideon and felt another suppressed shudder at his silent smile, his lips pressed thinly together and stretched just too far across his face without reaching his eyes. 

"They don't respect you, you know. Not like me. You need to find your special little thing here, and that mouth is /not/ going to help you." Gideon continued, stepping forward suddenly. Zeller felt his arms lock up under the dishwater and he forced himself to exhale, narrowing his eyes at Gideon as his advance paused directly next to Zeller. His hands clasped the handle of a steak knife under the water, hidden by suds and other dishes piled up between them. If Gideon was aware of the weapon in Zeller's hand he gave no indication of it, leaning on arm on the counter with the other still held perfectly behind his back. 

"I can give you anything you want in here; and yet you take nothing. You do your chores, sign out to work, come back, eat, do your chores again. You rummage around for my goodies under your bed like it matters what the good Doctor Bloom may find in there. She wouldn't do a thing to me, even if I happened to leave something in the wrong place." Gideon leaned in and Zeller forced his eyes to lock onto the bridge of Gideon's nose, ignoring how Gideon's tongue briefly showed against his bottom teeth in an even worse imitation of a smile than the first. 

"You could be a very special thing Brian Zeller. I'm sure you were just the tastiest little chicken in the coop." Gideon hissed, watching the small muscles in Zeller's face with rapt attention. Zeller fought to keep himself still, the muscle in his jaw betraying him as he gripped the metal knife handle so hard it burned. Acidic, sickened hot flashes gripped his legs and he thought he was going to collapse, staring at the hooked bridge of Gideon's nose without seeing it. Staring at the concrete floor, watching laundry soap bubble as it slicked the floor and stained the side of Zeller's face. Staring at the florescent lights in the cell, hoping if he kept his eyes open long enough it would blind him and he would never see his own face in the mirror again. Zeller blinked and focused on Gideon's face, scowling at the wrinkles between his eyebrows and swallowing. 

"I'm not a chicken anymore." He said hoarsely, setting the coffee mug on the drying rack a little too hard and flinching at the sudden noise. Gideon clucked his tongue and sighed, sliding his arm off the counter top and stepping back with an unreadable face. Zeller briefly closed his eyes and swallowed again, almost sure he knew what was going to happen next. None of the other inmates said anything; and this place wasn't different. It looked different, it had a different name, but it wasn't. This wouldn't be either. Gideon folded his arms behind his back once again, leaving out the kitchen doorway while not once taking his eyes off of Zeller's back. When he was gone, Zeller dropped the knife under water and inhaled sharply, closing his mouth the moment he felt pressure against his eyes and throat. He couldn't cry here, he refused to make that mistake again. He was not nineteen anymore and this was not new to him, he wouldn't cry. He turned the sink on and started rinsing dishes, blinking in confusion at the steam rising from the plastic and his hands. The water felt cold now; piling onto the layer of permafrost under his skin and settling into his bones. Not even the summer afternoon outside could have thawed him now. 

\------------------ 

"Tonight I think we should talk about something a little different. You have all done very well in sharing your experiences from both before and after your sentence; what I'd like you each to talk about is something you discovered since coming to this house. Something about the world that excites you, or surprised you." Alana Bloom instructed, crossing her ankles and straightening in her foldout chair in the living room. She looked around at each of the men in the room; only seven had decided to show up to group and half of them were mandatory. Her eyes landed on Brian Zeller last, and he became suddenly very interested in the armchair of the couch corner he had crammed himself into. He didn't like when Doctor Bloom looked at him; something in her eyes made him nervous like she was his teacher and he had done his homework wrong. 

"Let's start with you Mr. Stammets. What's something you found in the world that's surprised you?" Bloom said, her eyes sliding from Zeller to a balding man with a weak chin in one of the folding chairs. He looked up sharply and stammered over nothing, adjusting his glasses shakily and looking around the room. Everyone was staring at him, impolitely, Gideon in particular seemed to enjoy making Stammets squirm in his seat. Zeller looked down at the arm of the couch again, already feeling sweat prick at the back of his neck at tonight's topic. What was he supposed to say? Cell phones? Women? Trees? 

"Social Media. My-my friend showed me his phone and there's all these... Apps, that show you the world. You can connect with almost everything there, and there's so much information. Anyone can know... Everyone. It's amazing." Stammets spoke in an urgent, rushed sort of way that make most people feel on edge, like he was constantly out of breath and fighting for his words. Zeller didn't mind it that much, but he had heard a few of the other guys complaining about it and more than once Stammets had been shut up with angry glares across the dinner table. Doctor Bloom just nodded and kept her eyes focused on Stammets, looking down at her clipboard of papers before looking back up. 

"Thank you for sharing Mr. Stammets, social media is something that can be very exciting to learn about. For those of you who are being reintroduced to the world outside prison, social media can be a very useful tool later on in your rehabilitation. You can connect with family members you may not have been able to reach out to before." Bloom finished her observation and gestured for the next man to say his piece. Zeller started to zone out, staring at the ridged pattern of the couch arm and thinking about what Gideon has said earlier in the kitchen. Gideon had implied, hell he'd outright offered, to get Zeller anything. He knew what anything could be; a phone call, drugs, alcohol, magazines, even normal things like a particular junk food or shaving razor. Which put Zeller in several awkward positions; mostly because up until that point he had no idea what it was he wanted at all. He barely thought for himself, let alone felt for himself, and the confrontation had left him asking half a dozen questions he couldn't really answer. Did he want to get high and feel something? Did he want dirty magazines like the ripped up pages under other inmates bunks and stuffed in their socks? What the hell did Brian Zeller want from the outside world? 

"Mr. Zeller, what's one thing in the outsid world that's surprised you the most?" Doctor Bloom's icy eyes were now firmly locked onto Zeller and he swallowed, looking up at her. Gideon looked bored, visibly and soon to be vocally, but he tilted his head at Zeller like a cat eyeing a leaf skittering across it's driveway. Everyone else stared in various levels of disinterest and boredom, and Zeller sat up a little in his seat. 

"Oh this'll be just great; this kid was in longer than any of us combined. I'm sure the fucking sunlight and grass surprised the shit outta him." A coarse voice piped up from the doorway to the living room, against which leaned a stocky man with a scowl. Stammets turned to look at Zeller strangely, his eyes widening behind his thick glasses. Zeller shifted as the air in the room soured, the disinterest sizzling away into a sharp, intent gaze on each person's face. Almost each person's face; Gideon's was significantly brightened watching the way Zeller tensed and smiled tersely at the offender. He had gotten used to smiling when he was angry, or threatened, almost an unconscious defense against being labeled as aggressive or showing weakness. Just smile, bare your fucking teeth at them until they turn away and you can get your back in a corner again. 

"Mr. Jones, since you are refusing to participate in group therapy I'm going to need to ask that you leave the room." Doctor Bloom said calmly, watching Zeller's reaction and turning to the man in the doorway. Jones scoffed and pushed off the doorway to turn away, shooting Zeller a glare that could have withered an oak tree in July given enough time and effort. Zeller just smiled back, his face twisted up so much he was sure he looked more angry than he wanted to show. He dropped the look the moment Jones turned his back, resuming his intent study of the couch arm and trying to look contemplative about his answer. He settled for something easy. 

"Uhm, I guess my thing is probably the trees." Zeller wanted to kick himself for letting that fall out of his mouth; strong start there Brian, very smooth. Not at all highlighting Jones' point about you. Zeller wrinkled his nose at himself, looking back up at Doctor Bloom briefly. She was watching him attentively, her eyes narrowed slightly in a way that reminded Zeller of something. He didn't know what; but it was probably not good if she kept watching him like that. What was she seeing in him?

"There's a lot more, than I thought there were. And I did miss leaves. And grass I guess." Zeller felt embarrassment tugging at the sides of his stomach and he shifted again, shrugging to cinch off his strong finish to the question he didn't even have an answer for after speaking. Gideon's face didn't change at all, Stammets started nodding in agreement, and Doctor Bloom just pursed her lips and nodded.

"I'm sure seeing so much nature after so long in prison is both exciting and strange for you. It may be good for you to get a plant or find some place in nature that you feel connected to; a way to root yourself in the world much like the trees." Doctor Bloom suggested. Her eyes finally released their hold on Zeller and he exhaled a little, folding his arms over himself and looking down. 

"In fact, I think all of you could benefit from a plant in your rooms. It's a commitment to take care of something like that, and it would be yours to grow and nurture." Bloom continued. Zeller risked a glance in Gideon's direction, his stomach twisting as Gideon just smiled at him pleasantly and half-winked at him. Zeller returned it with a heavy glare and Gideon focused his attention on Bloom with an open, sugary interest, leaving Zeller be for the moment. Zeller ran a hand over his face and sighed, Doctor Bloom's voice already fading into the background of his mind again as his finger traced the top of the couch arm and he began counting the ridges. Zeller saw a shadow in the doorway out of the corner of his eye, and his nails dug into the troughs of the couch arm fabric as Jones fixed his pitless eyes on Zeller and crudely gestured toward him. Zeller smiled back, his jaw clenched so tight he could barely breathe. If animals could bear their teeth in aggression and shows of dominance; then Brian Zeller would be a wolf if it meant a smile could grant him some safety. 

\----------- 

The feral cat was lying on Zeller's bed again; it's crooked tail flicking against his pillow and paws stretching out with ragged claws and dirty fur spreading on his singular blanket. Zeller honestly hated that damn cat; every man in the house seemed to have a strong opinion on it, whether it was Gideon's adamant adoration, or A.J who frequently called it a "mangey freeloader"; and Zeller's opinion was that cat hair made him itchy as hell and he didn't like finding random dead animals under his bed. The cat, to its credit, liked Zeller somehow even less than he liked it, and would almost actively seek out ways to get in his way. For example; laying on his bed right before Zeller intended to sleep there, ensuring Zeller either slept on the floor or woke up wheezing and so itchy he couldn't stand the feeling of his clothes against his skin. Zeller stared at the cat blankly, the cat stared at Zeller with a disinterested acknowledgement that reminded Zeller far too much of his roommate and not enough of what appeared to be a normal stray cat. 

"Oh there you are Miriam." Gideon cooed. Zeller almost jumped out of his skin at Gideon's voice appearing behind him for the second time that day, turning sharply and frowning at him. Gideon just smiled and kissed at the cat, Miriam, who leapt into his arms and started purring like a small car motor. Gideon swayed to his own side of the room and sat down with a heavy sigh, delicately kicking off his shoes so as not to disturb Miriam. Zeller started brushing off his bed in a weak attempt to clear it of dusty blond and ginger cat hair, already knowing he was going to be coughing it up at 4:00 am in the bathroom so he didn't wake anyone up. He just wanted to sleep, he was working from 6:00 pm to 12:00 am tomorrow and he knew the next day was a 6:00 am to 2:00 pm shift. Meaning; his chances of getting sleep in the next 48 hours was slim to none. 

"Group tonight was simply awful. I don't think the boys are going to like you very much after landing them with plant babies to look after." Gideon commented, leaning around the dresser to look at Zeller. Zeller turned and sat down on his best, rubbing his face and grumbling. Gideon was right, as he usually was, between the awkward questions Doctor Bloom led them through and the even worse responses of everyone there, it was all in all a truly awful night. Zeller almost wished his participation was non-mandatory, but because of how long he had been incarcerated, whoever was in charge decided he needed to be forced into social and therapeutic interactions with people outside. Zeller strongly disagreed on that point. 

"I didn't know what else to fucking say. I haven't thought about "the exciting outside world"." Zeller grumbled, rolling his eyes at the overused phrase. 

"You could have said women; A.J. certainly made a point to. Who knew one could have so many intricate thoughts about the bossoms of grocery store clerks." Gideon suggested, chuckling and looking at Zeller up and down with a musing tone. "I suspect that's not really your thing though is it..." 

Zeller bristled and swallowed hard, glaring at Gideon's innocent expression and sitting up. It wasn't anyone's business if women were his thing; which they absolutely were because Zeller was absolutely straight, if anyone was asking. Which Gideon was, and the words were stuck in Zeller's throat like cat hair. 

"They are. My thing. But that's rude to say in front of Doctor Bloom, cause she's a woman and that's probably harassment." Zeller managed, shoving his shoes off and tucking them under his bed. Gideon chuckled again and moved Miriam to his side, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and staring at Zeller with far too much interest. Zeller ignored him, focusing on digging through his clothes for tomorrow's work shift and trying not to think about anything else.

He was not going to think about women; he wasn't going to think about the intimidating FBI trainee with the black hair and leather jacket, he wasn't going to think about strong she looked doing her morning laps or that she always raised her eyebrow at Zeller when they made eye contact. They hadn't ever talked but he heard her sometimes when he was in line behind her and her group of friends at the coffee cart; her voice had a timbre to it that left him thinking about her talking without hearing a word she said. She was confident, and sharp. Zeller heard her debating with Doctor Price more than anything; the two of them seemed to be verbally sparring every day they got coffee together and left still mincing words that Zeller assumed must be technical jargon or some secret code. Zeller didn't know how he felt about her other than curious, if he was honest. An active curiousity to know someone so loud; someone who was loud like him but got away with it all the time and had so many friends around her. How did she do that? Why couldn't Zeller do that? 

"I tend to go for blondes, there's something so alluring about that innocent air blonde women seem to have." Gideon commented, a wistful smile on his face. Zeller's stomach dropped to the floor and he almost closed his hand in the drawer, a particular blond leaping to the front of his mind before he could stop it. Doctor Price didn't look innocent, he looked... Brilliant. His eyes were almost always narrowed in sharp thought or assessment of whatever he was looking at, and when he looked at Zeller it was like the permafrost in him was being scraped with a pickaxe and analyzed by white fire. Doctor Price's mouth was the kind that worried Zeller to look at, and then he opened his mouth and it worried him more with his quick witted words and rounded off chuckles. He was cunning, and every time Zeller was in line at that coffee cart he felt like he could be walking on fresh coals trying to carry a conversation with him. He tried; he really did, and sometimes it was easy to ask about the Smithsonian or tea, or bees, which Zeller had discovered Doctor Price had a particular fondness of. Other days, Price wouldn't look at him at all, and any greeting or question Zeller could offer were met with shrewd looks and a disappointed curve of Price's wide, soft mouth that left Zeller's stomach in knots for the entire day. Price picked at Zeller's head like a puzzle piece to a box he didn't wanna open yet, he didn't want to see that picture and he knew there were pieces missing. It was a broken little box that Doctor Price unknowingly belonged to in Brian Zeller. 

"Stammets shu-shu-shut the fuck up!" Zeller closed his hand in the drawer with a start and winced at the loud yelling outside, glancing at Gideon as they heard Jones' nasally voice interrupting everyone's bed routines and openly mocking Stammets speech. Zeller peeked outside their room and stayed close to the doorframe, tensing as Gideon came up next to him and leaned out with a casual, unaffected stance. 

Jones had Stammets backed against the wall with Michael Brown hovering behind him, like a hawk watching an eagle pin a mouse. Stammets, the mouse, was stuttering something lost in the four inches of space between him and Jones arm, his glasses crooked and sweat running down his face. Zeller stepped out and felt heat bubble in his chest, a scowl on his face. 

"Why don't you shut the fuck up for a change Jones? I cannot be the only one tired of you bitching about everyone else all goddamn day and then sitting on your ass like you ain't got shit to do here." Zeller snapped, his eyes flickering to Stammets and hardening in as best a 'get out' signal as he could manage. Jones went silent; his face turning an almost purpled red as he stared Zeller down with what could only be described as unbridled rage on his face. Zeller's mouth went dry, and he realized he didn't actually know what Jones originally went to prison for. It could have been murder and Zeller just made himself victim number two. Every person in the house who wasn't as work was in their doorway, watching the scene in the hallway like a pay-per-view cage match or their favorite porn. 

"The fuck did you just say?" Jones growled, the tension of his words flecking spit across the hall onto Zeller's socks. The heat bubbling in Zeller's stomach boiled over and he felt panic start to rise with the heat, swallowing and sticking his chin up. 

"I said: why don't you shut the fuck up for a change. I'm sick of hearing your prissy voice fucking complaining all day while everyone else here gets their shit together around you." Zeller said slowly, his voice terse and even as he fought down the almost manic fear in his entire body. He had done this before; pushed the wrong guys just enough to wish they'd killed him, stuck up for the wrong people, and gotten himself in more trouble than he knew what to do with at nineteen years old and fresh in prison. Those mistakes cost him so much he couldn't ever list it all, and here he was a month fresh out of prison making the same mistakes again. Zeller worked the muscles in his jaw as he met Jones' glare, wondering if this was gonna be the day someone shut his loud mouth for good. He certainly hadn't learned to do it himself enough to avoid what was coming. 

Jones took two steps forward and his fist hit Zeller's jaw before he could fully inhale, the world snapping out of existence for a brief moment between the impact and the empty space for breathing after. Zeller gasped and coughed as his knees cracked against the floor, already shifting backwards to get up and hit back. He heard cheering, some loud whoops from somewhere behind him and he saw Stammets' back down the hallway as he escaped. Zeller hauled his arm back and threw his body into a blind punch, hitting the side of Jones' head with a crunch as bone broke under his knuckles and his knuckles broke against bone. Jones tackled Zeller around the waist and the last conscious moment he registered was dull pain thudding through his torso, and a pair of glittering eyes in the doorway to his room. Zeller's head snapped against the wall, and he never figured out if those eyes were Abel Gideon's or the cat's. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoooooo boy this chapter got LONG, I really appreciate y'all's patience with me as this fic continues to grow and the plot is planting it's seed in these early chapters.


	4. Daily Life, Interrupted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three lives woven together, thread by thread.

4:00 am - wake up and breakfast 

4:45 am/5:30 am - homework 

6:00 am - 2 mile run, morning classes 

11:00 am - lunch with Price 

12:30 pm - afternoon classes, weapons training 

5:00 pm - dinner, homework 

8:00 pm - night classes, workout 

Beverly Katz looked at her daily schedule and wanted to throw it across the field halfway on her run; or into the scruffy janitor's leaf piles to be grudgingly swept away in his trash bin of anger issues and awkward stares. The rigid and inflexible routines in her day make Beverly nauseous and it was on particularly cold 4:00 am breakfasts that she considered fully deserting and returning to California for good. She wouldn't, obviously, she was far too stubborn and far too eager to carve her path through the Bureau's layers and layers of formality to make her own difference in the world. At least the summers here were lovely; compared to being stuck in her car at one hundred and thirty degree weather, Beverly could handle the frigid mornings and allergy seasons. She curled closer to the heater and squinted at her homework; a four page paper on the procedures of good faith warrants and arrests. Beverly knew she'd heard that before but couldn't seem to find the definition in the slog of her pre-caffeinated mind, and tossed the tablet onto her bed with a heavy sigh. She wondered if that coffee cart by the Laboratory would be open at this unholy hour; the unassuming stand somehow had the best coffee and scones this side of Hogan's Alley, and Beverly was not ashamed to say that ever since Price took her there a month ago she had become totally addicted to that routine. 

So off to the coffee cart she went, shoving running sneakers on and barely remembering to lock her dorm room in the haste to get blood flowing properly through her body before she froze to death completely. She practically danced down the stairwell and dodged a few miserable looking joggers on the sidewalk, her own pace closing the distance between her and other people at a pace fast enough to impress coaches without being overdone. The sun was nowhere near up, and the darkness was tinted an early morning slate blue from fog and the scattered street lamps around the FBI buildings and campus grounds. Beverly did not enjoy the quiet; it was heavy, and settled across her shoulders in a way that made her skin crawl. She made it her personal goal to fill those silences; with chatter, with questions, with music, anything to take the quiet off her back and out of her head. She didn't need to know why she hated quiet, and with her luck as a field forensics agent she would never have to spend that long in a psych eval to find out.

Beverly turned down another wide strip of sidewalk and immediately slipped on a flat puddle of leaves, her shoulders twisting and arms out to balance herself as she recovered. She slowed down and huffed, shoving her hair behind her shoulders and looking around as if to scold the janitors for their lousy sweeping job. When she saw the usual trash cart unoccupied and no signs of a janitor currently working she felt a nervous pang go through her arms, frowning in confusion at own reaction. This was normal, janitors didn't start sweeping until 6:00 am; so whatever was weird about the cart being left out should not affect her in the stinging way it did. Beverly sighed and turned back to the sidewalk, keeping her eyes closer to the ground in front of her than the lanes ahead so she didn't slip again. The last thing she needed was a surprise drill to happen on the day she sprains an ankle. 

As Beverly finally turned the final bend to reach the coffee cart she found that a much different, likely worse surprise than a drill was waiting to greet her; that surprise being one disgruntled head of the Behavioral Science Unit, Jack Crawford. He was standing resolutely near the cart with his hat firmly on his head, and coat billowing dramatically in the blustering wind. Beverly slowed down to a trot as she closed the distance between them, shaking her hair out of the way and tucking her hands into her jacket pockets nervously. 

"I assume "good morning" would not go over well today, would it?" Beverly greeted, her nervousness validated by Crawford's assenting grunt. He stepped aside for her to order coffee and waited, looking around with shrewd, narrowed eyes as light slowly began to creep over the horizon and fizz away at the dewey grass. Once Beverly had her coffee and scones in hand, he gestured for her to follow him towards the FBI Laboratory building. 

"Katz, you're one of the best field trainees I've seen in a long time; you're the best in fiber analysis that anyone has seen here in at least a decade, and you're one of the only people here that can manage to get a straight answer out of Doctor Price in a timely manner." Crawford began, and with every praise Beverly felt her stomach do somersaults in her abdomen. Crawford only heaped praise at the same time he'd heap work onto someone's shoulders, and with his current track Bev knew she was in for a world of trouble. And in for a world of opportunities. Jimmy Price had warned her about something like this happening soon, and the doctors premonitions were spot on as Beverly now found herself getting almost the exact talk that Price himself had six months ago at the Smithsonian. Beverly hid her grin behind her coffee mug and tilted her head. 

"Thank you sir; where's the 'I need your eye on this immediately, top priority' part of this pep talk?" Beverly asked bluntly, sipping her coffee and wishing that the coffee had stopped her mouth before the words came out. Jack Crawford wasn't ever a man to sass, let alone at five am. Crawford turned to her with raised eyebrows and paused, opening his hand and gesturing in front of her in a clear signal to explain herself. Beverly swallowed and shrugged, trying to keep the small grin off her face. 

"Well now that you mention it, now. Come with me." Crawford relented, opening the door to the Laboratory building and walking with a more determined purpose. Beverly almost had to jog to keep up, tucking her bag of scones against her side and hoping her coffee didn't spill before she could fully enjoy its effects. Crawford led her to the backmost labs near the cluster of parking lots reserved for employees and regular agents in each of the three main FBI headquarters buildings. Doctor Price was already waiting for them, with a body on the examination table and eyes far too bright and alert for Beverly's liking. They all coalesced around the examination table and Price pulled back the sheet at Jack's bequest; revealing a blond woman in her mid 20's... Missing the bottom half of her face. Beverly's eyebrows nearly shot off her forehead and she looked up at Price and Crawford, who both grimly turned to the screen behind them. 

"Bethany Joy Beaches, quite a name, a twenty three year old grocery store clerk in Baltimore. She was found last week by a part time employee, and she's the third blonde woman to have been found missing a significant portion of their body in the last four months." Price explained quickly, handing a tablet to Beverly and gesturing to the new slide of information on the screen. 

"We found this... Well, we don't know what it is, on the roof of her mouth. We're not sure if the other two have something similar, but it looks like some kind of hair, or fiber." Beverly squinted at the tablet screen and gulped down her coffee, sitting on the stool nearest to her and scrolling through the rough analysis of the fiber. It was definitely textile; cotton with blue dye and some kind of coating on it. Beverly frowned and looked up at Crawford and Price. 

"You really want me on a case like this? I'm good at what I do but there's gotta be actual agents available." She asked slowly, setting the tablet and her bag of scones on the counter next to her. Price turned to Crawford with pursed lips and a sharply raised eyebrow, to which Crawford responded with a heavy sigh. A tense moment passed between them, some unspoken communication that Beverly could only try to decode through their body language and microexpressions. She couldn't decipher much from Crawford; but Price was an open book of 

"There aren't agents with your eye Katz, if I had "actual" agents with half your qualifications and skill set we wouldn't be having this conversation. Do I have you on this or not?" He asked, crossing his arms and staring her down. Beverly met his gaze and held it, nodding firmly. No turning back from the lions den now.

\--------------

4:00 am - Breakfast

4:45 am - Morning walk

5:00 am - work begins

7:00 am - first break

11:00 am - lunch with Agent Katz

1:00 pm - second break 

1:30 pm - lab work ends 

3:30 pm - Lecture at Academy 

4:45 pm - Office Work 

Jimmy Price admired bees for a multitude of reasons; spanning from their crucial roles in pollination, to their simple and predictable lifestyles; Price adored the little Apiformes and their idyllic ways of short, cheerful life. His only wish was that his own long, arduous life was more like the bees', and much less like his own. Jimmy Price's life could not be any further from the life of a bee: it was a long, bitter trek from one end of the earth to the other; and the only flowers he felt in it were small sprigs of dry humor and the occasional blossom of friendship. Friendship was to Jimmy as thorns were to roses, stinging his fingertips even as he pulled on the short stem to breathe a moment of beauty before it bled him dry. Bees rarely pollinated roses; and Jimmy rarely had friends. It hadn't been in his nature since he was a child; being the evil twin in a conservative household, his unfortunate habit of correcting teachers since the age of six, and his everlasting phase of flaming homosexuality, had all landed Jimmy Price a social outcast from the moment "social" stretched beyond his backyard. Forty years of adversity and acidic loneliness, one AIDS epidemic, medical school in a foreign country, and one hundred thousand AA meetings later; Jimmy Price wasn't fond of the world, and the world had been decidedly reciprocal of that apathy to him. 

Beverly Katz was an exception to that rule, it seemed, as stubborn a flower as Jimmy had ever met and twice as prickly as any rose thorn he might have grabbed ahold of. She was fiery, loud, and she pushed Price into the uncomfortable "laughing so hard it hurts with a single word" more often than Jimmy could count. Jimmy had a fondness for her, from the moment she interrupted his solitary luncheon with a sharp remark about Jack Crawford's attitude and an extra scone. Those scones became a commemoration of small accomplishments; her flourishing grades, his seventeenth year of sobriety, things between them that their friendship only served to make more meaningful. Beverly made things meaningful to Jimmy, a fact that both terrified and relieved him more than he could ever express to her. Her youthful fire inspired deadened parts of him into blooming hopeful, and bright flowers of friendship he was almost desperate to keep. He certainly tried to nurture it, and by extension nurture her as best he could through her journey in the FBI. 

Beverly Katz walking into Price's lab as he analyzed a body was not the particular nurturing Jimmy had in mind, but one look in her eyes and a scone later, they stood across from each other over the body of Bethany Joy Beaches. Beverly looked tired beyond her means, squinting down at the iPad with a furrowed brow and frown on her face that made Price almost nostalgic for his college years. 

"I'll leave you to catch Agent Katz up on the case, I expect to have something on that fiber by lunch." Crawford ordered, leaving in as much a storm as he arrived with Katz in tow, the dark clouds that seemed perpetually above his head remaining in the lab after he left. Jimmy sighed and accepted the scone Beverly offered across the body, tucking his arms to his sides and waiting for her to finish reading. 

"What have we got so far? Crawford said there were two other victims." Beverly finally said, looking up at Jimmy expectantly. He nodded and reached over to scroll on her iPad, pulling up the other two victim files. Photos of two more women appeared, along with their autopsy reports and missing persons reports. 

"The other two victims are Cassandra Danes and Eleanore Weston, both found with body parts missing roughly a week about they were reported missing. Ms. Danes was a secretary for a plastic surgery clinic, and Mrs. Weston was a paralegal. So far, the only obvious connection is that all three of these women are blondes. Makes me feel better about my grey hairs I must admit." Beverly snorted at Prices quip and sipped her coffee, nodding slowly. 

"No social connections? All in the state but different areas... Geez. So our killer has it out against blondes but isn't too picky, these women aren't even close in age, one thirty-four and the other fifty-two." She groused, setting the iPad aside and biting her scone half-heartedly. "Was this mystery fiber on the other bodies?" 

"No, it was not actually. This is the first good bit of evidence we've gotten from any of them." Price admitted, handing her the scone she'd given him and patting her arm. Beverly nodded and turned to the computers, clicking for a few moments before turning to Jimmy. 

"I'll get the fiber analysis started and double check it as we go, let me know what else you find on Beaches." She said, sitting down and slouching uncomfortably on the thin metal stool tucked halfway under the computer desk. 

"It's good to have you in my lab Agent Katz, you've earned this. Like or not, when Crawford takes a shine to someone, he's yet to be wrong." Price waved his finger at her as he donned a fresh set of examination gloves, his head tilted in sardonic wisdom. "Though, sometimes I wish we weren't quite so shiny for such gruesome tasks." Beverly laughed genuinely this time, chugging the rest of her coffee and turning to Jimmy again with a smile on her face. 

"As long as we know the difference between Jack's bad side and his good side, I'll suffer some good side if it means working with you. Plus, I got breakfast, which means you get lunch today." She added, grinning at Price's "tsk" and rueful smile. Two unlikely roses, blooming in carrion and daring to nourish the thorns of friendship.

________________________________________________

5:00 am - wake up, eat breakfast 

5:30 am - get ready for work 

6:00 am - van leaves 

10:30 am - lunch 

2:00 pm - work ends 

3:30 pm - van pick up 

4:00 pm - house chores 

5:30 pm - dinner 

7:00 pm - Monday, Thursday, group therapy 

9:00 pm - lights out 

Brian Zeller didn't count the days; every added number crept upon his shoulders unwanted and heavy, like looking at a calendar across the hall from his cell and seeing July pour into October in a meaningless sludge of time. The days were counted around him, everyone droned about time and it made Zeller's head buzz uncomfortably everytime it came up. 

"you've been out of prison for two months now, have you considered looking at apartments yet?"

"You've earned a lot of visitation days, why haven't you called your family?"

"It's getting too fucking hot in this cramped house." 

Zeller's head was buzzing with Doctor Bloom's, Stammet's, and Matthew Brown's voices all slushing around in his skull between the stabs of pain from his headache. Jones had definitely concussed him last night; after he woke up on the bathroom floor with Gideon wiping blood off his forehead and the door nearly being broken down, Zeller barely remembered the rest of the night or even waking up to go to work. He knew Doctor Bloom had to call the police, who interviewed everyone in the house, determined everything was fine and left. He knew no one would look at Zeller when he stumbled against the door frame or wheezed, and Zeller knew that every fucking muscle in his body hurt and there was nothing he could do to stop it from happening again. And again. The halfway house truly was no different than prison; it had a view, but the alien outside just reflected back to Zeller's grey life and how little it meant to be outside at all. It made him nauseous to think about so hard; currently thinking about anything too hard made him nauseous and it wasn't just the aching concussion. 

Zeller looked up from his garbage cart and coughed into his elbow, wincing at the damning crunch in his chest and doubling over as tension wrapped itself around each lung. His eyes watered and he coughed again, gripping the side of the cart and wishing he would either throw up or stop breathing to get oxygen into his body. It hurt, and seemed to last forever, when he could catch his breath he looked at his watch dangling over the mop bucket and saw it was almost time for his lunch. Zeller blinked the tears from his eyes and rubbed his face, trudging his way back to the storage rooms and keeping his head low to avoid the worst of the sun's reflected light off the sidewalk. The leaves skittered across the concrete and every small crunch under his shoes stung his temples like those carpenter bees Doctor Price mentioned in line for coffee the other day. Unfortunately, avoiding the sun and his own thoughts landed Zeller smacking into a decidedly solid, and annoyed, person. 

"Ow! Hey watch where you're -" Zeller looked up, startled and flinching back, from the pretty dark haired agent and turning his face away. She moved his hand away and gasped slightly, looking right into his face with open surprise and... Concern? 

"Oh my god, you're the janitor right? What the fuck happened?" She asked, gently pulling him aside as a gaggle of students passed their small collision. Zeller felt his ears redden under his beanie and the words were stuck in his throat, so he settled for a shrug and cleared it. 

"Uhm, sorry- yeah I'm the janitor. I'm fine, sorry for running into you that was stupid." Zeller managed, rubbing the back of his neck and looking down as she persistently looked him over. She huffed and crossed her arms. 

"You got the shit kicked out of you and you're fine? I know we're not even on a name basis but you're clearly not okay." She said, cocking her hip. "I'm Beverly Katz. That's one issue solved." 

Zeller looked up in some mix of amazement and shock that he was sure looked incredibly stupid, his mouth parted and eyes wide at her resolute stance and clear invitation to talk, to introduce himself like a person. How do people do that? 

"Uh, my names Brian. Zeller. I didn't totally loss the fight but yeah, I did get my ass kicked. Thanks." Zeller wished he could kick himself in the ass, his words blocky and awkward as they tumbled out of his mouth in what felt like the wrong order. Beverly Katz snorted and shook her head, her stance loosening as she looked Zeller up and down again. 

"I have Advil and I'm about to get breakfast, got a break coming up?" She asked. 

"Uh, lunch actually. Just have to put this away."

"Great, meet ya at the coffee cart. I'm gonna grab a first aid kit, you look like shit and that tape is peeling." She said, gesturing to the cut on Zeller's cheek. He touched it and felt the tape peeling and heat radiating from his face, nodding slowly. Before he could work up the words from his twisted chest to his mouth, Beverly Katz turned and walked down the sidewalk toward the parking lot. 

Katz and Zeller parted ways down the leaf strewn sidewalk and he could barely think as he pulled the garbage cart into it's corner and locked the door behind him, his head buzzing even harder than before. Beverly Katz was gonna get breakfast with him, she was nice. She worried about Zeller for a split second and that much humanness made his head pound until he felt his eyeballs might fall out. Zeller groaned and rubbed his forehead, walking to the coffee cart almost outside his body and letting his legs simply move on autopilot. Zeller was a human, and here he was trying to make friends. 

He got to the coffee cart fast, faster than he meant to, and he arrived to see Doctor Price and Agent Katz talking rapidly with a hushed, tense body language. They both stopped when they saw him, and Beverly grinned and waved him over with a first aid bag in her hand. Price quietly pursed his lips and looked between them before decidedly turning towards the coffee cart. Zeller hesitated, holding his arm at his side and shuffling his feet as Beverly pulled them into their spot in line. 

"Brian Zeller, this is Jimmy Price, we work together. You guys have talked a couple times but since I didn't know your name I figured you didn't know his." Katz said, opening her small bag and pulling out a small antibacterial wipe and medical adhesive. Price didn't introduce himself, curtly nodding to Zeller and ordering with a cool voice. 

"This will sting but you need to hold still, you did a pretty decent job patching yourself up but it needs to be cleaned more." Katz continued, ripping the paper package and making a grab for his face. Zeller flinched, briefly, his eyes closing and face tightening against the projected touch and Beverly paused. Zeller frowned and looked down, stuffing his hands in his pockets. 

"I didn't, uh, patch myself up. My ce- roommate was a doctor before, he did." Zeller said, awkwardly stuffing the silence full of his words. Katz wiped his face and retaped it, seeming to wait for Zeller to say more. He didn't, and Price seemed to take that chance to turn around and look Zeller in the eyes for what could have been the first time. Zeller froze; his ears and neck reddening as Price narrowed his eyes and stared so deeply into Zeller he briefly wondered if every dirty secret was being pulled out of him on the sidewalk. 

"Ice will help with the swelling but a Tylenol would be better than Advil for your pain." He said, turning with three coffee cups in his hands and two small paper bags.

"Shall we?" He said, walking down towards the main lab buildings without waiting for an answer. Katz scoffed a chuckle and closed her bag, stuffing it into her backpack and jerking her head for Zeller to follow. He did, closing his mouth and touching where she taped over his cut as he trailed behind the pair and stumbled over his work boots. They walked around one side of the Laboratory building to a smaller set of glass doors, and Beverly held it open for Price to enter. Zeller stopped, almost feeling the wall of shame he ran full face into as he looked at both their expectant faces. 

"I can't go into any of the buildings." Zeller choked, shrugging halfway before the tension in his shoulders stopped him. He felt unbelievably dirty, looking up and watching the way both of them seemed to withdraw from their quiet invitation. Of course, after a month he starts to slip too close to something meant for regular people and he goes and fucks it up. Price clucked his tongue and sighed, tapping his own forehead. 

"Right, I forgot their policy on that. Bev, while he's still on parole we'll be lunching outside." He said, turning on his heel and gesturing to the lawns around the side of the building they had just come from. Katz turned to Zeller and her eyebrows shot up, the comment in her opening mouth stopped by Price handing her a bag of scones and waving them both to some spot he conjured out of nowhere. The three of them sat on the grass and Price handed Zeller a coffee while Katz passed around the scones. He accepted both, shifting to grab his wallet. 

"Thanks, how much do I owe you?" Zeller asked, glancing between them both in confusion as Price waved his offer of money away. 

"Oh no, this one's on me. She insisted." 

"I did and I insist I have the next one." Katz said, turning to Zeller and gesturing at him with what was left of her already half gone scone. 

"We trade off everyday who pays for lunch, on your days just worry about your own. I forgot you're still in the halfway house Jimmy mentioned. Is that where you got your face messed up?" She asked. Zeller looked down again and swallowed, nodding. He fiddled with the edge of his wallet, digging his nail between the seams before shrugging again. 

"Yeah, one of the guys there is a complete asshole, and I um, I said some stupid shit to him." Zeller explained, tucking his legs more comfortably to himself and taking a drink of his coffee. Katz nodded and mimed a cheers, finishing her scone in an impressively massive bite. 

"I never cared for bullies either." Price said slowly, taking his time stirring in two sugar packets into his tea and blowing on it. Zeller looked between them as they started talking about some story Katz remembered, and for a moment Zeller was entirely lost in the fact he was sitting on the grass, underneath trees, drinking coffee with two... Friends. His friends. He trailed his hand out beside him and felt the slight pricking of blades of grass against his skin, looking up at the sky between the tree branches and not caring that it made his head throb to tilt it back that far. It was so blue, and green, and every falling leaf danced like they were frantic and alive in a way Zeller thought he could get used to feeling. He looked back down and took another drink of his coffee, squinting and perking up as Katz looked to see if he was paying attention. 

Maybe the leaves weren't so bad after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hesitated bringing Sassy Science fully together this soon but, I promise now our plot is kicking on in earnest and it's all coming together. Hopefully I can manage to update in less than three months this time, sorry y'all.


End file.
